


Prelude and Fog

by Tripleransom



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: acd_holmesfest, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6713797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripleransom/pseuds/Tripleransom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A foggy night in London leads to an unexpected meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude and Fog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [methylviolet10b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/gifts).



Disclaimer: I don't own any of 'em. Don't I wish.  
Author's Note: Written for the ACD Holmesfest on Live Journal and posted there. Substantially the same, but I have fixed a few formatting errors here.

The fog in London was an almost tangible thing, I mused as the mare trotted cautiously along. Acrid and choking, fed by the fumes of countless coal-fires, it was altogether different from the innocent country mists of my boyhood. It reduced the street-lamps to a dirty yellowish glow that scarcely reached the ground and gave almost no illumination. 

The fog muffled sound as well as sight, so the boy never heard the cab as he darted out of an alley and directly into the mare's path. I pulled her up sharply enough that she half-reared and shied so violently that I feared for a moment that she would lose her footing on the greasy cobbles and turn us over. 

As it was, in skidding to a stop, she hit the boy a glancing blow with her off shoulder and knocked him sprawling to the pavement. He scrambled quickly to his feet, looking back the way he had come, eyes wide and frightened. I followed his gaze, just as his pursuers, a gang of youthful toughs, pounded into view. As he hesitated, I stretched down my hand to him. 

"Up with you then, lad." I cried, as my passenger pounded on the roof of the cab. 

"What's going on, driver?" he called "Devil take you, you've jostled me around like a parcel of laundry!" The boy caught my outstretched hand and scrambled awkwardly up beside me as I touched up the mare with my whip and off we set again, leaving the toughs to disappear into the fog behind us. 

"Sorry, Sir," I called down to my fare, "I had to pull up to avoid running down a child who ran into my path." 

"Never mind the urchin," he cried, "I've an appointment to keep and I can't be late!"

"Don't worry, Sir. I'll get you there," I replied. "But I daren't go faster in this pea-souper." 

My passenger subsided, grumbling and I turned to the shaking boy huddled on the box beside me. He was small, almost delicate looking, his hands scraped and the knees of his ill-fitting trousers torn where he had fallen. At first glance I had thought him a child of no more than 12 or so, but as he struggled to master himself, I decided that he must be a bit older, a youth of perhaps 14. 

"Thank you, sir" he whispered to me. "It would have gone ill with me if I'd been caught."

"Why were they after you?" I enquired absently, steering the cab through the streets.

"I made a mistake'" he said, his face flushing. "I gave a penny to a ragged little flower girl and they must have seen me take some coins out of my pocket. I suppose I looked like an easy mark to them. I shan't make the same mistake again," he finished defiantly.

"What's your name, lad? And where do you live?" I asked, handing him my handkerchief. He hesitated a fraction of a second too long before responding, thus allowing me to deduce that whatever name and tale he gave me would not be his own.

"Charles, Sir. Charles James. I live at the Criterion Hotel, Sir. I-I'm the boots there."

I sighed theatrically, not taking my eyes from the road. "If you must tell lies, lad, make them a little more believable. You're not the boots at the Criterion. That much is obvious, because-" here I paused to swing around a corner. I felt the boy stiffen beside me, until I continued, "-because you're an American, although your clothes, though they are not new, are English. They are also most likely not your own, judging by how very ill they fit you." 

As I went on, the boy relaxed slightly, shaking his head. "Right on all counts," he said. "The clothes do belong to the boot-boy, though. I rented them from him for the evening. I had hoped my accent was better than that. I worked on it pretty hard on the ship coming over here, but of course, that was only a little while. As you guessed, I'm American." 

"I never guess." I said, more crossly than I intended. "Your accent is not bad, but your choice of idiom is what really gives you away." 

The boy glared at me, but then, seeming to accept the criticism as just, he asked impudently, "and what's your name then?" 

"Will Scott" I replied without a blink. I had become quite used to the name in the several months since I had come up to London after leaving Oxford so abruptly. 

I had needed to secure some source of income quickly, since I would certainly never have accepted money from my father, not that he was likely to offer it, considering the circumstances under which we had parted. Mycroft would have helped me, of course, or given me a place to stay, no matter how disappointed he was with me, but I was not going to accept assistance from him either; he had little enough of his own and a career to establish. All of which had left me no choice but to find some gainful employment for myself and quickly.

I had had offers – men with my looks and inclinations always do – but becoming a rent boy had seemed an altogether too hazardous way of earning my bread. Driving a cab, however, was not so bad. With my knowledge of horses and their ways, obtaining a job as an ostler was easy. Soon enough, one of the regular drivers failed to turn up for work one time too many - likely due to drink, judging by the signs he'd exhibited - and I was promoted. The pay was meager enough; eight pence on the shilling to the cab owner for the horse and rig, another penny to Jeremy the stable-boy for grooming the mare and keeping the harness in repair. Six or seven shillings for myself at the end of my shift meant a good day.

The hours were long – 12 or 14 hour shifts – and in bad weather the conditions were arduous. No wonder many of the drivers sought refuge in the public houses, leaving as much of the driving as they could afford to the bucks. If I had a good week, I had enough to pay for my drab room, my tobacco, what food I required, and cocaine to ease the black humours when they descended upon me, which was often enough. On a bad one – well, I had never had overmuch appetite anyway.

I soon found that cab-driving, if not exactly stimulating to the intellect, had at least the advantage of enabling me to learn the streets and byways of London and I relished the opportunity to become intimately acquainted with the city. Once I had learnt my way about and could drive without paying such strict attention to the route, there were opportunities a plenty to study my fares and hone my skills of observation. To-night was no exception. I found myself watching the boy beside me for clues as to his background. I had known an American or two at University, but only slightly and never a boy of this age, so I put most of his little oddities down to his origin and contented myself with studying his accent. I noticed that he was covertly studying me in his turn when he wasn't staring avidly at what little he could see of the passing city in the enveloping fog. 

Soon enough despite the fog we reached our destination. "And high time, too, driver!" my fare said as he alighted and flipped me a coin. 

No tip, I noted and muttered "pillock" under my breath. Beside me, the boy giggled. Plainly, he had caught the insult, if not its exact meaning. 

"What sort of thing is a pillock?" he asked with interest. 

"Never you mind, my lad," I replied, wheeling the mare smartly around. "That was my last fare of the evening, so we're headed back to drop you off." His face clouded over at this and I wondered if his place of residence had been as fictional as the name he gave me, but he raised no objection to our destination as we trotted along. 

"So soon?" he asked, "but I'm having so much fun – at least," he amended hastily when I raised an eyebrow, "I am since you rescued me." He was silent for a while, then "See here, Will," he said presently in a tone of the utmost seriousness, "I've a proposition for you." 

"And just what might that be?" I asked, amused at the lad's coolness. 

"Could we do this again tomorrow night? You see, my –my tutor is very strict and he won't let me see any interesting parts of London at all. All I get to do is go around to museums and galleries. And we're leaving for the continent day after tomorrow and I'm tired of houses and churches and 'proper' things. I want to see what the city is really like!" For a horrible moment I thought he was hinting about chorus girls or some equally vulgar form of entertainment, but then he hurried on before I could speak. "And if I went with you, I know I'd be OK, but if I have to go out on my own, I might meet up with those ruffians again, or others like them, but you're ever so – so strong and you're good with your whip and all…" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

My eyebrows, which had been climbing higher and higher as he went on, very nearly reached my hairline as he concluded this remarkable speech. "Good with a whip!" I said, "Well, I've been told that before, and I always supposed it to be quite a compliment," I tried without success to keep the laughter from my voice as the boy flushed with indignation. 

"Don't make fun of me," he exclaimed "I can pay you! I've got money – well, some, anyway. And I do need a – a companion. Please?"

Although I had had offers before to be a 'companion', I had certainly never had one quite like this. His evident sincerity was appealing and after all, he was proving to be quite an interesting diversion.

By then, we were approaching the Criterion. "Drive around the back," the boy directed in an imperious tone. "They've left the side door to the stable yard open for me."

I wondered exactly how a child would have been able to plan all this so neatly, but forebore to question him. I pulled up the mare and considered for a moment as the boy looked at me hopefully. It was true that I could free up my evening to go out with him, albeit it with a loss of pay that I could ill afford, but the novelty of the proposition was tempting; so with only a little hesitation, I agreed to his proposal. 

"Capital!" he exclaimed. I thought for a moment he would offer me his hand, but he plunged it into his pocket instead and drew out a coin. "Here," he said, handing it over to me, "Take this and meet me here at ten pm sharp! I'll be ready." 

He vaulted down off the box neatly and darted across to the door. Opening it, he vanished into the yard. I looked at my hand. He had given me a sovereign, which I was most certainly not going to accept. Shaking my head at what I had just agreed to do, I turned the mare and made for my yard, as I was late already.

Once back at the cab-yard, I handed over the reins to Jeremy the stable lad, who had been waiting up for me. "Decent day?" he asked. 

"Enough, except for the last fare who was a right tight-purse and didn't give me a tip," I replied. Jeremy snickered as I gave the mare a pat and watched as he led her off, whistling through his teeth as he went. 

"I'll be done in 'alf a tick," he said over his shoulder. "Care for a pint, Will?" The additional invitation was plain in the look he gave me. He had been putting out tentative feelers since I had started work there, but I could not bring myself to be interested.

"Thanks, but I'll push off home," I replied and sauntered away. On the way, I was surprised to notice I was humming to myself the same jaunty tune Jeremy had been whistling. Was I actually happy? It had been so long, I couldn't quite remember what 'happy' felt like, so I settled for 'content'. The evening's encounter with the strange American boy had been interesting enough to break up the monotony of an otherwise completely uneventful day. I found to my surprise that I was actually looking forward to the next evening's proposed excursion. 

~~~~

Promptly at ten o'clock the following night, I was humming to myself again as I lounged against the wall at the agreed-upon place. Sure enough, Charles slipped through the door precisely on time. 

"Oh, thank goodness, you really did come," he cried. I've been fretting all day that you would forget, or…" 

"I wouldn't forget an important appointment like this one," I said. "But Charles," I added, "I can't take your money. It's my pleasure." 

"But…" he looked mutinous, then his face cleared. "Can we be friends, then?" he asked, hopefully. "And I can treat you to…some, some ale or…meat pies or something?" "Or something," I agreed with a little inward shudder and the bargain was struck. 

"Come on then, lad," I said, "although if we're friends you really should tell me your real name. Wherever did you get 'Charles James' from, anyway? " 

"Oh," he said with a little smile, "I saw it on a placard in a museum about the Stuart kings and it was the first thing that came to mind." 

"You won't tell me your real name?" He shook his head with a stubborn look and said "Charles will just have to do." 

I sighed. "All right, then, 'Charles', let's walk and let me show you some of my city." "My city." Already I thought of London in that way, despite having only lived here a few months. Already I felt more at home in London, amongst the unwashed, teeming masses of the city than I had ever felt in our grand, gloomy house in the country.

So we rambled companionably about London for some hours. I deduced the occupations and histories of the passers-by for the boy's entertainment, while he spun me wild tales about hunting game and bargaining with Red Indians in his homeland. I didn't believe the half of it, but his enthusiasm was infectious. I found myself smiling and laughing and - if I was honest with myself, showing off my skills for him - more in his company than I had in months. At last, he bought some hot chestnuts and we sat down to share them together on a bench at the edge of Hyde Park, blowing on our burnt fingers and tossing the shells in the bushes as he continued to talk on about how wonderful it all was. 

"I'm almost sorry we have to leave tomorrow," he said, suddenly turning serious. "And, golly, Will, I suppose that means I'll never see you again. You've been so nice to me – it means more than you could possibly know." 

Surprising myself, I said to him. "You could always write to a fellow, you know. You could even tell me your real name and perhaps I could reply. You've been a bit mysterious about all this. Where are you off to tomorrow?"

Frowning, he pushed his hands deep in his pockets and sank his head on his breast in thought. "All right" he cried, coming to a decision; "I'll tell you about it, but I'm afraid it will ruin everything. You must promise not to be very cross with me, Will – please?" 

Wondering what on earth the boy was getting at, "I promise," I said, laughing. "Why should I be cross? What kind of dark secret are you hiding?"

"You'll see," he said mournfully and took off his disreputable cap, allowing his hair to cascade to his shoulders. It looked odd and jarring topping the grimy boys' jacket and seeing it, I wondered how he had ever managed to deceive me.

"Good Lord" I said. "You're a girl. I should take you back. It's not proper…" He –she! half turned away from me, twisting her hair up under her cap in one quick motion and turned back looking like a boy again. 

"I knew you would say that," she mourned. "Girls always have to be proper and well behaved. I could never go out like this if anyone knew I was a girl. We were having so much fun. Tell, me, exactly what has changed? I can still be your, your friend, can't I? We're still the same – aren't we? We're not doing anything wrong."

"It's not the same." I said, getting up from the bench. "We should go back." I was stung by the fact that I had failed to see through her disguise. Truthfully, I was also chagrined that I had accepted her compliments at face value. "All that drivel you said to me about how I was so strong and good with a whip. Couldn't you have thought up something better than that?"

"Don't mock me!" she cried angrily. "It's true I said the first things that I could think of. I was panicked. I hadn't planned on being chased by those ruffians and you did save me. I always carry a knife in my boot," she continued darkly, "and they would have paid. But there were four of them. I probably couldn't have gotten away without your help." 

"Probably not." I agreed equably, whereupon she gave me a sharp look. "I see that you can defend yourself, all right, I said in a placating tone, "but…" 

"But it was just as well you happened along," she finished for me. "I owe you for that. I'm sorry for deceiving you." 

"I suppose the Red Indians were all a fiction also?" I asked, disappointed in spite of myself that I had been so thoroughly taken in by her tale. 

"Oh, no," she replied, "I wouldn't make a story like that up. There really were Indians and I really did trade with them, although mostly I just tried to keep out of their way. They were from before, when I was a child out West, in Colorado. I just came from New Jersey, but I've only lived there a few years."

"You saw, but you did not observe," she continued, peering up at me earnestly. "I must be good. This is the first time I've ever done this – dressed up on purpose to fool people, I mean. I wore pants – trousers – as much as I could when I was younger, but not like this. And it worked" she crowed. "Nobody could tell! I even fooled you! I'm going to be a great actress and an opera singer someday," she finished smugly. 

Then she looked hard at me. "You're taking this awfully well. But tell me honestly, are we still friends? I'm sorry for fooling you, but I knew you wouldn't take me around otherwise. I can never go anywhere and I have to sit and do needlework and I don't have any fun, except when I sing. Then I'm free enough to be myself. But then I thought how easy it would be to play at being a boy, so I gave Jimmy – he's the real boots – a penny to use his spare clothes and went out to really see London. Then those ruffians chased me and you saved me and when I saw that you thought I was a boy, I just kept on with it. That's why I didn't want to see you in daylight. I thought you would know, if you got a really good look at me." Here she paused to draw a breath, then went on, looking earnestly at me. "Most of what I told you was the truth. We, that is, my governess and I, are heading for Milan tomorrow. I'm going to be a real opera singer" she said proudly. "I'm going to work with Scarlatti, the singing-master."

"He's the best," I said skeptically, still trying to recover from my shock. "What makes you think he will take you?" 

"Contrary to what you might believe, New Jersey is not actually a howling wilderness," she snapped. "My music teacher was once a pupil of Scarlatti's. He wrote a letter and the maestro has agreed to hear me. I know he'll take me on. I can do it. I've scrapped and fought for everything I've ever had and now it's all right here. I know I can do it." Suddenly she paused for breath and then regarding me, she said, "But what about you, Will? You're no cab driver. You play at being one well enough, like me, but I'm not really a boy and you're not really a cabbie, either."

"How would you know?" I asked snidely, for she had shaken me with her accuracy. "You've only been in London a week. Why makes you think that?" 

"For one thing, you knew who Scarlatti was and when I came out tonight, while you were waiting for me, you were humming Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte. Hardly the usual tune for a cabdriver to have in his head; I would have expected 'Buttercup' or something of the sort instead. Do you sing, too?"

"No, I play the violin, or at least, I did." I said. She raised an interrogatory eyebrow. I let out a deep breath – it was not a sigh – and continued; "My violin, it's - I don't have it any more." 

"Oh, Will." was all she said, putting her hand on my arm. As a musician herself, she knew full well what the loss must mean to me. Fortunately, she was too tactful to ask for an explanation. Instead, she went on. "I don't know what's happened to you, Will, but you're too good for this." She indicated our grimy surroundings with a wave of her hand. "Perhaps you should go on the stage. You play act very well, you're quick, and with your voice and your looks, you'd be a leading man in no time." 

By now, we were back at the door to the hotel stable yard and it was nearly dawn. "I have to go," she said, looking at the lightening sky. "Please, Will, won't you keep the sovereign, to remember me by?" She held it out to me. 

I cleared my throat. "All right, I said, putting it in my pocket. "As a memento then. Can we shake hands, on being friends, I mean?" She nodded, extended her hand, and then suddenly flung her arms hard about my waist instead, hugging me fiercely, her head against my chest. Awkwardly, my arms went about her shoulders and we held each other close for a moment; "almost," the thought came unbidden before I could force it away, "as if we were sweethearts." 

Almost immediately she pulled away from me. "Take care of yourself, Will," she said looking up at my face. "Remember what I said about the stage. I know you could do it." 

Quickly then, she spun around and ran for the door. Half-way through, she turned to look back at me. "It's Irene," she blurted suddenly, "my name; it's Irene." 

I had only time to raise my hand in a wave before the latch clicked home and then she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a standalone pinch hit for Methylviolet10b in the ACD Holmesfest.


End file.
